


The missing piece

by Ailendolin



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reunions, Soft Boys, Tenderness, Tom Blake Lives, Tom and Will find each other again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25937284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ailendolin/pseuds/Ailendolin
Summary: The orchard is surrounded by a low and slightly crumbling stone wall, and even though it’s bigger than the one he and Tom walked through in France, the sight of it is so eerily similar that Will’s heart misses a beat before it begins to stumble into a frantic race. Instinctively, he looks up, his eyes scanning the sky for any sign of planes.There are no planes, though – just Tom in simple every day clothing walking out of the backdoor with a peaceful smile on his face, a dog dancing happily around his legs.Will returns from the war and he and Tom meet again.Or: Five times Will remembers their mission without Tom noticing, and one time Tom does.
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 23
Kudos: 64





	1. Cherry trees

**Author's Note:**

> Last weekend, I watched 1917 for the first time. Needless to say, this movie and Will and Tom stole my heart, so here I am joining this fandom way too late and writing what is probably the hundredth TomLives! fix-it AU. *lol* 
> 
> I am not a native English speaker, and even though I proof-read my works several times, there are bound to be mistakes in here, so please don't hesitate to point them out. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own 1917 or the characters of William Schofield and Tom Blake. I am not making any profit with this.

**Coming back and coming home**

**1\. Cherry trees**

Will comes back just before Christmas 1918.

His sister is there at the station when he arrives and somehow manages to spot him among hundreds of other soldiers looking exactly like him: weary, exhausted and hollow. Will keeps his head down, trying to make his way through the crowd and towards the exit when a flash of blue catches his eyes. The relieved call of his name is the only warning he gets before his sister is suddenly right there in front of him, wrapping her arms around his too-thin body and pulling him into her familiar embrace with so much force he almost stumbles.

“You’re here!” she cries, her words muffled by the fabric of Will’s uniform. “You’re finally here.”

Will buries his face in her blue coat. “Yes, I am,” he whispers, too choked up to say anything more.

He comes back just before Christmas but he doesn’t come home. His sister’s house is warm and cozy, just like he remembers. Her two daughters, older and somehow even more lovely than in his memories, are a delight, and Will is glad to have all of them close again. They’re all that remains of his family and he treasures them with all his heart all the more for that. But there’s a restlessness in him he cannot shake, a missing piece of his life he can’t stop longing for no matter how hard he tries.

His sister notices, of course. Even after all this time apart she knows him so well that there are days when Will can’t help but think that she knows him better than he even knows himself.

She waits until after Christmas to broach the subject, until the new year begins. 1919.

“You’re not going to stay with us, are you?”

It’s not really a question. Will hears the quiet acceptance in her voice, sees the understanding in her eyes, and has to look away.

“No,” he says, a little ashamed. “But I’m not leaving yet.”

He tries to stay for as long as he can, tries to make it last for his sister’s sake, for his nieces who adore hm so much even though he’s quiet and not much fun to be around. But as the months pass by and the snow begins to melt, the urge to go and put an end to the longing he feels every day and every night becomes too hard to bear. It bleeds into his nightmares, keeping him awake for hours afterwards, until he feels like a ghost stuck in the past.

Will is tired of it all.

One evening, after the girls are in bed, his sister gently knocks on his bedroom door. She sits down next to him on the thin mattress, their shoulders gently brushing against each other, and after a moment of silence she says, “I’ll walk you to the station tomorrow, after the girls have gone to school.”

Will’s head whips around. “Elisabeth,” he begins but she shakes her head, cutting him off.

“I know what it’s like to miss someone,” she begins, and he knows she’s talking about their parents, and her husband. “Letters and pictures – they’re all well and good but they can never be enough, can they?”

Will follows her gaze to the nightstand where the tin he carried with him throughout the war lies next to a book. It used to hold her picture, her letters. Now it keeps someone else’s memory safe.

She drags her gaze away and smiles at Will, a little wobbly perhaps but sincere all the same. “I hope your Tom knows how lucky he is to have you.”

Will swallows hard. “I’m the lucky one, Beth” he whispers.

His sister’s smile softens. “Maybe you both are lucky, then.” She stands up and brushes her hand across her eyes before holding it out to him. “Better start packing, little brother,” she says. “Tomorrow is going to be a good day.”

Will takes her hand and lets her pull him up before drawing her into a hug. He doesn’t have the words to tell her how much it means to him that she’s making this so easy, that she’s letting him go even though she just got him back, but he hopes she understands. Judging by the way her hand reassuringly strokes his back, she does.

Saying goodbye to her at the station the next day is still one of the hardest things he’s ever done in his life. He’s not going off to war again (“Thank god for that,” his sister says) but he’s still leaving and he doesn’t know when he’ll be back – _if_ he’ll be back.

“Just promise me one thing,” his sister says as the train comes to a stop behind them and their time together is running out. “Promise me you’ll be happy. I miss seeing you smile.”

Will’s chest tightens at her words and he tries to smile for her. Her eyes fill with tears and she brings one gentle hand up to cup his face, her thumb smoothing over the fine lines it finds there. “That’s a good start,” she whispers.

They hold each other for one long moment, and when they part his sister isn’t the only one with tears in her eyes.

“See you soon,” she says because they never say goodbye.

Will’s lips pull up into another faint smile at the old, familiar farewell. “See you sooner.”

He boards the train, finds a seat by the window and opens it so he can wave at her one last time.

“I can’t wait to meet your Tom one day!” she shouts as the train begins to leave.

Will shakes his head at her and yells back, “I love you!”

She grins, so full of life and love. “I love you, too!”

Then the train pulls out of the station and just like that she’s gone and Will finds himself truly alone for the first time since he’s come back from the war. It never bothered him before, being on his own. It’s how he preferred things to be, especially after the Somme, until Thomas Blake somehow managed to sneak his way both into his life and into his heart with a cheeky grin and endless stories.

Will has never had a friend like Tom before. Most people think he’s too quiet, too reserved to be good company. Tom doesn’t mind the quiet, though. There were days when they sat together for hours in a field with only the sound of the wind between them. It was the most peaceful Will had ever felt during the war. Other times, when Tom figured Will was being too quiet, his gaze a little too dull and lost in horrors of the past, he would fill the silence with funny tales from his childhood that never failed to draw Will back from whatever faraway place his mind had gone to and make him smile.

It’s been almost two years since Will last heard Tom’s voice. His heart aches at the thought and yet he is beyond grateful he is granted the chance to see Tom again at all. He still remembers those awful, hollow days after their mission when he’d convinced himself that Tom must have died on his way to the aid post. No one could possibly survive that much blood loss, or so he’d told himself, and Tom had been so weak and pale by the time Captain Smith’s company found them that it would have been nothing short of a miracle if he’d survived the journey. He remembers returning to the Eighth alone, tired and exhausted and with an infected hand that ached and throbbed but didn’t stop him from using his weapon and being a good little soldier. He’d gone to sleep that night alone amongst hundreds of men, feeling like he’d lost a part of himself on the way back, buried beneath felled cherry trees in bloom.

Those days after their mission were some of the darkest days of his life, and now that the war is over and everything around him is brimming with hope for a better future Will doesn’t like to think about them if he can help it, doesn’t like to remember how he almost gave up, broken even worse than after the Somme. He wishes he could erase the memories of silent grief in the trenches, the way he couldn’t look at the tree in the field where it all started, and the empty silence filling up the space right next to him like barbed wire. He didn’t speak to anyone for days, just curled up somewhere in the mud and stayed out of the way of people until he got new orders. It didn’t take long until his own company became wary of him, and he could hear the others whispering about shellshock and telling the new replacements not to bother with him.

Will had existed (not lived, because the way he had been during that time could not be called living) in a world without Thomas Blake for almost four weeks until a letter arrived, the first of many, and Will still feels his eyes prickling with tears when he thinks about the unmistakable writing on the envelope. He’d opened the letter with trembling hands, skimmed over it until he came to the very end and read the name that was crammed into the last remaining space right at the bottom.

_Tom_

Will had broken down right then and there in the middle of the trench, too overwhelmed by this surprising twist of fate to care who saw him or what they thought of him afterwards. He’d held that letter close to his heart, like everything he treasured dearly, and wept openly in relief. All the pain, all the grief of the last few weeks had broken free because against all odds, Tom had survived his wound, Will’s most grievous mistake. It felt like a heavy burden had finally and unexpectantly been lifted off his shoulders as the realization sank in that Will hadn’t failed his only friend, after all.

And Tom hadn’t failed him either.

He kept writing to Will, sometimes not even waiting for a reply before sending the next letter. He wrote the way he talked, and soon the tin Will carried in his chest pocket became too small to hold all the things Tom had to say. Will relished every word he received, every update on Tom’s recovery, and felt the cracks in his soul slowly heal with each letter that arrived. Tom’s words got him through the last year of the war, gave him something to hold onto and fight for, and Will has no idea how he could ever hope to repay Tom for all that he did for him. He can’t even begin to express how much it meant to him that Tom didn’t forget him over time and even went so far as to include a photograph of him with one of his letters once he was back home, cheekily writing on the back of it, “So you don’t forget my beautiful face, old man.”

Will smiles at the memory. Tom’s words had made him laugh for the first time since their mission, almost half a year after they set out to deliver the message. His fellow soldiers had turned their heads and looked at him like he was crazy but Will hadn’t cared.

That moment seems like a lifetime ago now.

The train rattles through the countryside, past farms and fields, woods and meadows starting to bloom. It’s a landscape untouched by war. There are no trenches, no planes crashing down from the sky. No Germans, no gunfire. It’s peaceful and Will closes his eyes, lets the rhythmic sounds of the train lull him to sleep.

He wakes when the train begins to slow, and somebody announces his stop. Will reaches for his suitcase with his right hand, because his left is still not able to carry much weight, even after all this time, and a moment later the train stops and he steps out onto the platform.

No one is there to greet him since no one knows he’s coming apart from his sister, and because Will has no idea where exactly the Blake home is located, he walks up to the first person he sees and asks for directions.

“It’s right on the edge of town,” an elderly lady tells him kindly. She points west. “See that low ridge there? The Blakes live just beyond that. Can’t really miss it. Just follow the road and look for the cherry trees.”

Will nods and thanks her. It doesn’t surprise him at all that the people of this town associate the Blake family with the cherry trees Tom always talked so fondly about. He thinks of his little tin of treasures, hidden in the breast pocket of his jacket, and the blossom pressed between the letters he keeps in it.

‘It’s spring here,’ Tom had written to him a year ago. ‘The cherry trees are in full bloom and it’s beautiful, Will. I wish you could see it. Maybe next year? The war has got to be over some day, hasn’t it? Anyway, since you can’t be here, I thought I’d send a little bit of home to you. It’s not much and I don’t even know if it will still be intact when you get it, but it’s the thought that counts, right?’

He’d ended the letter with, ‘I miss you,’ and when Will discovered the cherry blossom, tucked neatly between two pages and still very much whole, his heart had ached for a place he’d never even laid eyes on.

Now, a year later, he’s finally going to see the famous orchard in bloom. Will still can’t quite believe he’s really here, even as he slowly makes his way through a town that feels quite familiar even though he’d never even heard of it before he met Tom, let alone visited it. It’s thanks to Tom’s amazing talent to bring stories to life before his listeners’ eyes that Will recognizes some of the places he walks past now, like the bakery that only uses Mrs. Blake’s cherries for its cakes, or the clock tower with its bright blue clock that always runs five minutes late.

“Personally, I think some witch cursed it when it was built,” Tom had said with a grin, causing Will to shake his head in fond amusement at the ridiculous notion. “Too ridiculous for you? Well, my Mum and Joe think it doesn’t work right because the clockmaker fails to repair it on purpose to keep himself employed by the town. But that’s boring.”

It’s half past three when Will passes under the clock tower, give or take five minutes, and soon after he’s walking out of town and along a well-worn path up the low ridge the woman had pointed out to him earlier. His heart starts to nervously flutter with every step that brings him closer to the Blake house, and he’s just about to reach the top of the ridge when a thought strikes him.

What if Tom doesn’t want to see him?

Will falters. There had been no time to inform Tom about his visit, spontaneous as it was. Will had been so swept up in the excitement of seeing Tom again after all this time that he hadn’t spared a thought about how Tom might feel about it. He likes to think Tom will be happy – he’s been very vocal about his desire to meet Will again one day in his letters, after all – but the thing is, Will can’t be sure. He can’t be sure Tom really meant what he wrote over the past two years, that he misses Will as much as Will misses him. Maybe Tom’s feelings on that matter have changed. Maybe he’d never truly missed Will in the first place, his written words of longing nothing more than another tale spun, one meant to reassure Will of their friendship and give him something to cling to since the war hadn’t been over for him yet.

The thought alone pains him so much that Will considers turning around and heading back to the station, back to his sister and her daughters, so he’ll never have to find out if he means as much to Tom as Tom means to him.

But then a voice inside his head tells him, “You’re a right bloody idiot, William Schofield. You’ve come all this way to see him and you’re not going to turn back now that he’s almost within reach. You ran across a battlefield for him. You can climb a sodding ridge.”

It sounds suspiciously like Tom.

Will takes a deep, steadying breath and decides to ignore the anxious beating of his heart. He wills his feet to move and within a moment, he’s up on the ridge. His eyes widen in awe and all thoughts of doubt flee his mind for one incredible minute. In front of him lies a beautiful shallow green valley with wildflowers as far as the eye can see. A few cows graze not far away, and just a little bit below where Will stands the windows of a small, cozy house glint invitingly in the sunlight. Next to it, a sea of white moves in the breeze, and all Will can think is, _Tom was right: It does look like it’s snowing._

The orchard is surrounded by a low and slightly crumbling stone wall, and even though it’s bigger than the one he and Tom walked through in France, the sight of it is so eerily similar that Will’s heart misses a beat before it begins to stumble into a frantic race. Instinctively, he looks up, his eyes scanning the sky for any sign of planes.

There are no planes, though – just Tom in simple every day clothing walking out of the backdoor with a peaceful smile on his face, a dog dancing happily around his legs.

Will’s mind goes blank. For a moment, all he can do is look and drink in the sight of his dearest friend. Tom’s cheeks are a healthy color and so unlike the pale grey Will still remembers vividly and sees almost every night in his dreams. His eyes are bright and full of life like they used to be in happier days, before their ill-fated mission to reach the 2nd Devons.

And his voice –

The dog is the first one to spot Will, and when she barks in his direction Tom turns around and looks up. Their eyes meet and the world stops for a moment, until Tom recovers enough from the shock of seeing him and asks, “Will?” as if he can’t quite trust his eyes.

Will knows how he feels. He has dreamed of this exact moment so often he’s scared he’s going to wake up any second now, back in the trenches, but then Tom starts moving towards him, starts running up the ridge, and it’s the pure unadulterated happiness in his voice when he calls Will’s name again that Will finally allows himself to believe that this is real.

“Will!” Tom laughs and a moment later sun-kissed arms wrap themselves around Will’s body and pull him home.

The house and the orchard cease to exist, the excited barking of the dog a distant sound. Will’s world is narrowed down to the feeling of Tom’s shirt against his face, the warmth of Tom’s body seeping through his own clothes, and the words Tom mutters into his neck. He doesn’t understand what exactly Tom’s mumbling, but the relief and happiness he breathes into his skin with every word trickle into Will’s bones like honey until he feels warm all over. He tightens his hold on the back of Tom’s shirt almost desperately.

“I’m here,” Will murmurs as he breathes in Tom’s scent, for the first time not buried beneath mud and blood. He doesn’t know if he’s putting the obvious into words for his own sake or for Tom’s but it doesn’t matter as long as it anchors them both in the here and now, in this new reality where they are together again and not torn apart by a hidden knife anymore. “I’m here.”

Will doesn’t realize he’s crying until Tom pulls back and looks up at him with wide eyes that are bluer than the sky. He whispers Will’s name again, almost impossibly gently and with a hint of worry.

Will bites his lip, tries to keep his emotions at bay, but he loses the fight when Tom’s eyes soften and one of his hands comes up to gently cup Will’s face, the bones beneath Tom’s palm more prominent than the last time they saw each other despite Will’s sister’s best efforts to change that.

“Oh, Will,” Tom breathes, and Will is helpless against the tidal wave that crashes over him when Tom pulls his head down so their foreheads are touching and they’re breathing the same air. He closes his eyes and lets the tears fall, lets Tom see all the pain he’s carried with him since their abrupt and painful separation two years ago on a green field in France.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to choke out in-between quiet sobs. There are so many things he regrets, so many apologies he owes Tom that he doesn’t even know where to begin.

“Hey now, don’t be,” Tom mumbles softly. “It’s okay. _We’re_ okay,” he adds, absentmindedly brushing his thumb over Will’s cheek. Will’s breathing stutters, and when he opens his eyes he sees his own pain reflected in Tom’s gaze. Tom smiles at him then, a little sadly, and Will can’t help but think of the sun. For the first time he truly understands why Icarus couldn’t stop himself from flying too close to it. Its beckoning is irresistible, and so is Tom’s smile. Will has no idea how he managed to live two years without it. He couldn’t pull away from Tom now even if he’d wanted to. 

And he doesn’t. He never wants to let Tom go again, ridiculous as that sounds. He wants to stay in this moment forever where all the pain and worry of the last two years is in the past and all that matters is the feeling of Tom’s hand against his skin.

Tom’s smile softens as if he can read Will’s thoughts and agrees. His hand wanders up to Will’s temple and, after a brief pause, his fingers get lost in Will’s hair.

“You let it grow,” he murmurs with something like awe in his voice.

Will lowers his eyes and feels his cheeks burning, suddenly ashamed that he hadn’t been able to summon the energy to go and get his hair cut even once since he came back from France. But then Tom’s fingers reach the nape of his neck and rest there, and Tom says, “It suits you,” and Will’s eyes snap back to his.

“What?” Tom asks with a laugh when Will just stares at him.

Will shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s just –“ He pauses, a lump suddenly forming in his throat as he takes in the subtle nuances of Tom’s face. “I’ve missed this,” he finally says. “I’ve missed _you_.”

 _So much,_ Will thinks. _More than words can say_.

Tom’s face goes slack with surprise for a moment. Then, with a fond expression Will wishes he could paint and preserve for all eternity, he lowers his hand from Will’s neck to his shoulder and down his arm until finally, his fingers trail over Will’s and make a home in the spaces between them.

“I’ve missed you, too,” Tom begins, and Will can’t help but marvel at the fact that these words and the weight they carry come so easily to him. He can’t believe he ever doubted Tom. “I don’t think a day has passed where I didn’t talk about you in some way. Mum sometimes teases me about it, you know, and Joe just rolls his eyes, but I can’t help it. I just … can’t,” he adds with a helpless shrug.

Will gives his fingers a careful squeeze. “It’s okay,” he echoes Tom’s earlier words. Then, because Tom always had a way of making him share more than he wants, he confesses, “I didn’t talk about you at all until I got back.”

“I figured,” Tom says, and there’s a look of quiet understanding on his face Will has missed fiercely. It’s like Tom can see right through him, can see exactly how Will’s life has been since Tom had almost died, and it’s such a relief not to have to put the loneliness and isolation he felt into words, at least not right now, that Will can’t help but sigh.

 _Later_ , he thinks, his gaze briefly wandering to the cherry trees behind Tom. Later, perhaps, he will tell Tom how meaningful those delicate blossoms became to him after their forceful separation, how they pulled him out of the river, helped him cross the woods and urged him to run across a battlefield like a mad man. He will talk about his return to the Eighth, how he pulled away from everyone, closed off his heart, until Tom’s first letter arrived and breathed life back into him. He will grin when he talks about the soldiers in his company and how they thought Tom must be his sweetheart because he would smile every time a letter arrived and no one else got this much mail this regularly.

And one day, Will knows he will tell Tom about the cherry blossom he still keeps in his tin, next to Tom’s picture and letters, even though he has a feeling Tom already knows about that. Tom knows _Will_ , after all. He’s seen how Will keeps all his precious things close to his heart and what could be more precious than these reminders of home?

Now, though – now Will looks at Tom, takes in his bright eyes, the healthy color of his cheeks and his brilliant smile that rivals the sun, and it feels like he’s finally found the missing part of his soul he thought forever lost in France, buried beneath mud and blood and under layers of white blossoms and yellow embers. Something eases in his chest, and he takes a deep breath as Tom’s fingers tighten their hold on his hand and he realizes what this means.

“Alright?” Tom asks softly.

Will smiles at him and nods even as his vision blurs with new tears.

“I’ve made it,” he says in awe, almost unable to believe it. “I’ve come home.”

Tom pulls him back into his arms and Will closes his eyes. “It’s about time,” he breathes into Will’s neck.

Will smiles and nods. They are both quiet, and he can feel Tom’s heart beating against his own, a steady rhythm of life.

He’s never heard anything more beautiful. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts on this first chapter. 
> 
> Also, if there's a 1917 discord out there, please let me join! I need people to talk about Tom and Will and cherry blossoms. You can also find me [here](https://ailendolin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to scream about these tragic boys with me!


	2. Barbed wire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will gets to meet Tom's mother, and work prospects are discussed over dinner.

**2\. Barbed wire**

Will doesn’t know how long they stand up on the ridge, unwilling to let go of each other, and he doesn’t care. All that matters in that moment is the feeling of Tom’s arms around him, the way Tom’s chest rises and falls with ease against his own, and how soft Tom’s hair feels against his neck. He breathes it all in, allows himself to get lost in Tom’s presence – something he thought he’d never get to do again. It’s the best feeling in the world to have him close like this, to have this physical confirmation that he is truly alive and well.

In the end it is Tom who pulls back from their embrace, and Will almost doesn’t bite his lip fast enough to stop himself from making a sound of protest that would have been embarrassingly close to a whimper. Tom simply gives him a reassuring smile and picks up Will’s suitcase with one hand before reaching for Will’s hand with the other.

“Come on. Can’t stay up here forever.”

As always, Will follows him. He lets himself be pulled down the gentle slope towards the entrance of the orchard where the dog is still patiently waiting for them, clearly well trained not to go beyond the stone wall. The nearer they draw to her the more excitedly her tail begins to wag, and it doesn’t take long until she’s barking up a storm, causing Tom to laugh.

“Be quiet, you silly girl!” he tries to tell her sternly, but in the end he’s unable to hide his obvious fondness for her. It’s a side of Tom Will has only ever caught glimpses of, and he finds himself mesmerized by it. “I haven’t even been gone that long to warrant the fuss you’re making right now.”

She barks as if to disagree with him, and Will can’t help but chuckle. Drawn by the sound, the dog looks up at him with intelligent eyes, clearly curious who this strange man is and whether she should allow him onto the grounds or not.

“Hello, Myrtle,” Will greets her softly. She cocks her head to the side when she hears her name, and it’s one of the cutest things Will has ever seen.

“That’s Will,” Tom explains for her benefit. It’s ridiculous, of course, because the dog can’t possibly understand him, but Will still finds it incredibly endearing. “He’s a friend, so don’t bite him.”

Will isn’t sure if Tom’s joking about the biting or not, so he carefully holds out his hand to her, letting her sniff it. She does, and before he knows what’s happening Myrtle is pressing her whole body against his legs, panting happily and clearly demanding to be pet.

Will is more than happy to oblige. He lets go of Tom’s hand and kneels down to scratch Myrtle behind both of her ears, and judging by the way she closes her eyes she enjoys it.

“Aren’t you a beautiful girl,” Will murmurs, marveling at the softness of her fur. “So lovely. Tom’s stories really didn’t do you justice.”

“Oi!” Tom protests, giving Will a playful shove that almost causes him to lose his balance. “You just weren’t listening properly.”

Will looks up at him, sees the mirth in his eyes that make the bright blue sky behind him look pale in comparison, and smiles. “I was listening just fine.”

“As if!” Tom scoffs. “You were tuning me out half the time, that’s what you were doing. Don’t even try to deny it. Your eyes always get that faraway look in them when your thoughts drift away. It’s a dead giveaway, mate.”

Will gives Myrtle one last scratch and pushes himself back up. He looks at Tom, glad to see him trying to hold back amusement rather than long held back hurt or anger, but he still feels the need to apologize.

“You’re right,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t always listening, and – “ His throat closes up, but he takes a deep breath and soldiers on because Tom deserves to hear this. “And there were times I regretted nothing more than that.”

The mood shifts, and with it the expression on Tom’s face. His quiet amusement evaporates like boiling water in front of Will’s eyes, and when he hesitantly steps closer and asks, “Will?” in a voice that is so unsure and tentative it almost sounds wrong, Will hates himself a little for bringing back the war with him to this peaceful place.

“It’s alright,” he hurriedly says, flashing Tom a quick smile that doesn’t feel real. “Show me the orchard?”

Tom looks at him a moment longer, his eyes so sad but understanding that Will can barely hold his gaze, before he nods and leads the way. Will is grateful that Tom lets it go just like that, that even after two years apart he is still so attuned to Will that he knows when to push him and when to take a step back. It’s almost as if they were never gone from each other’s lives.

Almost.

They step into the orchard, Myrtle running ahead, and it’s like walking into another world. It’s more peaceful and quieter than the reality Will has been forced to get used to since the war began, and beautiful beyond words. The air is filled with falling petals, and they’re blanketing the ground like snowflakes, hiding the grass beneath a soft, unblemished white sea. The sweet smell of cherry blossoms in the air, faint but unmistakably there, makes Will close his eyes. He takes a deep breath and feels his mind calm.

“Smells nice, doesn’t it?” Tom muses quietly. “Always reminded me of home.”

Will glances at him, wondering how homesick Tom had been two years ago when they walked through a different orchard together. He doesn’t ask, though, not wanting to break the peaceful calm once more with careless words they’re both not ready for. Instead he murmurs, “I get that.”

And he does – maybe not in the exact same way Tom means, but ever since their mission, ever since wet petals clung to his cold skin in a merciless river, cherry blossoms and Tom are intricately interwoven in his mind, reminding him of all that is good in the world and worth fighting for. To be standing in the Blake orchard now, so familiar from Tom’s stories and yet still something new and wonderful to behold, feels like finally arriving at the end of a long road.

Will can’t remember how often he’s dreamed of this moment. He can’t possibly count all the times he’d forced himself to keep going both during the war and afterwards with nothing but the image of Tom sitting against a cherry tree in bloom in his mind. Everything he has done, every step that took him through the trenches back to England and finally here to this wonderful place has been because of Tom, because Tom asked him to stay safe and come home and that was enough for Will to try, at least.

“Sit with me?” Tom asks then, the real one, not the one Will’s mind flees to in his darkest moments. Without waiting for an answer Tom sits down on the grass and leans his back against the trunk of one of the cherry trees. He smiles up at Will and pats the empty space on his left in invitation while Myrtle makes herself at home against his right side.

Will is struck by the sight of him. It’s so similar to the image he’d held onto for so long that he has to blink twice to make sure he isn’t lost in his head again. He finally sits down, right next to Tom and close enough that their shoulders touch. It’s a deliberate move on his part, and even though this is new for them, this closeness, Will is glad that Tom doesn’t shy away from it. Touching Tom is like balm for his weary soul, a solid confirmation that Will didn’t dream up all the letters he still keeps safe and close to his heart.

And because Tom allows every touch Will seeks, Will can’t help but think that Tom may know this, may perhaps even feel the same need for a physical reminder that they’re both here, alive and well despite everything. It all seems perfectly normal, as if they’d sat close like this a hundred times before in France when, in reality, they rarely invaded each other’s personal space like this before.

There were only a few moments, back then, when they passed those boundaries and gravitated towards each other in search of comfort. Rare occasions when the nightmares got too horrible, the winter too cold or Will’s disassociation with the world too bad. And then there was April 6th 1917, the day Will had trusted Tom blindly, quite literally, to lead him out of the darkness, the touch of Tom’s hand his only anchor. And later, that awful moment when he held Tom in his arms, held his hand in return and failed to do the same for him when red bloomed violently across Tom’s uniform.

He swallows hard and wills his thoughts back to the present where Tom allows his weight to press a little more against his shoulder and sighs happily. It feels good, grounding and real in a way the letters could never be.

Will lets his eyes wander over the trees in front of them, takes in their fragile beauty that could so easily be destroyed by one single spring storm, and says quietly, “Your mother’s orchard is beautiful.”

Tom smiles at him. “Didn’t promise too much, didn’t I? It’s a sight to behold, at least when the weather’s nice like it is today. Real peaceful.”

“I can see why you wrote so many of your letters out here,” Will remarks.

Tom is quiet for a moment too long, and Will turns his head to look at him. He’s surprised to see a small frown on Tom’s face.

“I did that because it made me feel closer to you, actually,” Tom finally admits. “I know it’s stupid and doesn’t really make sense but there were just some days …” He stops abruptly and bites his lip. His gaze moves towards the sky as if it holds all the answers, and it’s only when he starts blinking furiously that Will realizes Tom’s trying to keep his emotions under control. “There were days,” he continues, a slight tremble in his voice, “when you were just too far away, Will. Too far out of reach. But sitting out here beneath the trees – if I closed my eyes, at least for a little while I could pretend that you were here with me, and safe. Just an arm’s length away.”

_Like I used to be_ , Will thinks.

Tom might not have been over in France fighting a war anymore, might have been home and safe, but that didn’t mean his battles had stopped. Will was more than familiar with the overwhelming feeling of worry for his safety Tom must have felt all this time, the weight of not knowing whether a person dear to you was alright or not. It was one more reason why he’d never liked going on leave: he never knew what he’d find when he came back to the front – who’d still be there, and who wouldn’t.

His heart aches at the thought of Tom going through this every day, of him seeking solace in the trees because beneath a tree was where he always used to find Will during the war.

Without thinking, he curls his fingers around Tom’s left hand, quietly reassuring him. “I’m here now.”

He feels Tom squeeze back before taking a shuddering breath. “I know, and I’m so grateful for that.”

They are both quiet, then, and for a while they simply sit together, just the two of them surrounded by trees, the smell of cherry blossoms in the air and the spring sun warm on their faces. Occasionally, Tom indulges Myrtle by throwing a stick for her, and Will thinks he would gladly spend the rest of his life watching her run after it as long as Tom keeps drawing gentle circles on the back of his hand with his thumb, a silent reminder that this moment is real and theirs to keep forever.

The longer they sit there, basking both in the sun and in each other’s presence, the heavier Will’s eyes begin to feel. He almost doesn’t notice that he’s relaxing more and more against Tom’s side, his shoulders finally releasing the tension they carried throughout the trying years that are now finally behind him. His mind starts drifting, at peace and blissfully quiet for the first time since he arrived back in England.

The sound of a door opening startles him back to reality.

“Tom! It’s almost dinner time!”

Will’s eyes snap open as adrenaline rushes through him.

“Easy,” Tom murmurs under his breath even as Myrtle barks happily and jumps up to run back to the house. “It’s just my mum.”

Will lets out a shaky sigh, and when he nods and relaxes back against the tree trunk Tom calls back to his mother, “I’ll be there in a minute, Mum! Will is here! We need an extra plate tonight!”

He says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world, as if Will regularly stops by to visit, and Will feels a little embarrassed now that his heart isn’t racing a mile a minute anymore. “I didn’t even ask if I could stay for dinner,” he mumbles.

Tom’s glances at the suitcase sitting on the grass. “I assumed you’d stay for more than that,” he says, his voice oddly hesitant.

“I don’t want to impose,” Will begins but Tom cuts him off with a roll of his eyes.

“You couldn’t even if you tried,” he says matter-of-factly. Then, almost as if to dare Will to argue with him he says, “If you think I’m letting you go after an hour when I’ve waited two years to see you again, you’re sorely mistaken, old man.”

Will smiles at the old, familiar nickname. “Then I’ll stay,” he says. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

A part of him hopes Tom, impulsive and daring as he is, and so much braver than Will could ever hope to be, will say, “Forever.” 

But Tom only nods and Will tries not to be disappointed as he watches him stand up and dust himself off. “Come on, then,” Tom says, holding out his hand. He pulls Will up onto his feet. “Mum made stew today. You’ll love it.”

The prospect of meeting Mrs. Blake, always nothing more than an afterthought before, is suddenly extremely real and vaguely terrifying, especially when Will remembers the emotional letter he sent her just after he got back to the 8th two years ago. He hadn’t really been ready to put what happened into words again at the time, lost in silent grief and drowning in quiet despair as he was, but he’d tried because he made a promise to Tom and it was the last thing he thought he would ever get to do for his best friend.

Still, as hard as he had tried, he knows the letter was a mess and didn’t do Tom justice at all. Luckily, Mrs. Blake doesn’t hold his grief-filled words or the tearstains blurring them against him, doesn’t blame him for the false news he delivered. She has told him as much in her reply letter. But now that he’s going to have to face her in person the old mortification Will still feels over it all is hard to ignore when it twists his stomach into nervous knots.

As they step closer to the house, it also dawns on Will that he’s not only more or less barging into Mrs. Blake’s life and house completely unannounced here, but also didn’t even think of bringing her a present to make up for all the trouble his presence is most likely causing. Buying her some flowers or a nice bottle of wine is the least he could have done.

Tom laughs at him when he tells him about his worries.

“Mum won’t mind,” he says just as they reach the door. “Trust me, she’ll be glad to have you, flowers or not.”

Before Will can panic any more about any of this, Tom’s warm hand on the small of his back guides him inside. They’re standing in a little storeroom, the shelves around them stacked with glasses full of jam and pickles and all kinds of things from last year’s harvest. To his right Will can see an assortment of clothes and boots lining the wall.

“Stable clothes,” Tom tells him when he follows Will’s gaze. “Mum doesn’t like the whole house smelling like cow so we change in here.”

He sets down Will’s suitcase and takes off his shoes. Silently, Will follows his example.

“The kitchen is just through here,” Tom says when Will is done and leads him through another door.

The first thing Will notices when he steps through is the warmth. The setting sun shines through the windows, tinting the room a golden orange that complements the gentle heat coming from the oven. It feels homely in a way that reminds him of his mother’s kitchen: simple, functional but full of heart and love. Will doesn’t allow himself to think of his mother often but here in Mrs. Blake’s kitchen he’s feeling that old ache keenly, and it only multiplies when Mrs. Blake turns around, her eyes softening with genuine happiness the moment she sees him.

“Will,” she smiles, and her eyes crinkle just like Tom’s.

Will swallows past the lump in his throat and holds out a trembling hand. “Good evening, Mrs. Blake. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

She laughs – a delightful, joyful sound – and wipes her hands on her apron. “Oh dear, Tom really wasn’t lying when he said you were polite to a fault.” Will feels his face heat up. “Please,” she says, more gently. “Call me Charlotte.”

And before Will knows what’s happening, she ignores his hand completely and wraps her arms around him instead and pulls him close.

“Welcome home,” she whispers as if he was one of her sons, as if he had always belonged here and she’d waited for his return all this time. “I’m so happy you are here.”

Will’s vision blurs. His throat closes up and he barely manages to choke out a heartfelt, “Thank you.”

He didn’t expect her to be this overwhelmingly kind to him, not when he knows how much grief he caused her when he wrote to her that her son had died. She may have forgiven him for that but Will has not, and while he didn’t think she would be angry at him or throw him out of the house he certainly never imagined her welcoming him with so much genuine happiness into her home.

When he finally raises his hands to grip the back of her apron tightly to return the hug, he is trembling all over. Will knows she can feel it but there’s nothing he can do to stop this involuntary reaction. He tries his best to blink against the tears, though, to fight against the memories of his own mother’s arms around him from so long ago. It feels like a lifetime, now, since he last saw her. She used to soothe him just like this, with gentle hands upon his back and soft words, and suddenly Will misses her more fiercely than he has in years.

“It’s alright, dear,” Charlotte murmurs, gently stroking his back and making the memories sharper and clearer than they have been before. “It’s quite alright.”

All Will can do is nod into her shoulder. He’s distantly aware of Tom moving past them to continue stirring the pot, acting like there’s nothing wrong with Will standing in his kitchen trying not to cry all over his mother’s apron. A part of Will can’t help but think that this whole situation should feel weird, that he shouldn’t be so at ease in an unfamiliar kitchen with a stranger hugging him, even if that stranger is Tom’s mother and shares his eyes and smile. But Charlotte’s easy acceptance of him somehow manages to quieten all his worries, and the warmth of her arms blankets him in a feeling of safety and unconditional love – a love only a mother can give.

“There you go,” she says with a small smile when Will finally finds the strength to pull back from the haven that is her embrace. He sniffs, averting his eyes, and her right hand vanishes into one of her apron pockets. A moment later she’s offering him a white handkerchief.

Will takes it gladly. “Thank you,” he mumbles. “And I’m sorry –“

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Charlotte interrupts him gently but firmly. “I know the last few years have probably taught you differently, but there’s no shame in tears. Better in than out, is what I always say.”

“Should have seen me when I came back,” Tom softly pipes in, still stirring the pot in slow, rhythmic motions but no longer looking at what he’s doing. He gives Will a small smile. “Cried for hours, didn’t I, Mum?”

It’s not the first time Will marvels at the fact that Tom can so easily allow himself to be vulnerable in front of other people but it still surprises him every time he witnesses it. Will has spent the last two years hiding so much of what he has seen and done and been through that it seems impossible now to ever lay it out in the open for all the world to see. Because of that he doesn’t know what to say to Tom’s admission that was meant to put him at ease, isn’t even able to return Tom’s smile. His heart and mind are still trying to catch up with everything that’s happened, and it feels like he’s somehow letting Tom down.

Tom’s eyes, however, soften like they used to do in France whenever Will struggled with the afterimages of his nightmares of the Somme and just couldn’t put into words what haunted him so much that he sometimes woke up with strangled screams.

“Come on,” Tom says gently after handing his mother the spoon. “I’ll show you where you can freshen up.”

He leads Will out of the kitchen and up the stairs into a small bathroom. There is barely enough room for two people in it but Tom doesn’t leave while Will washes his face, and Will is grateful for that.

“Thank you,” he says, and he hopes Tom knows that he doesn’t just mean the towel Tom is holding out to him.

“Any time,” Tom says easily.

Will dries his face and finally manages to smile at him. He knows he must make a pitiful sight with his reddened eyes and bright spots of agitation highlighting his pale skin, but Tom still beams at him as if he’s the best thing he’s seen in a long time.

And that’s the thing: Tom has always looked at him like that, like Will is something special – right from the beginning on. He never understood why Tom had chosen him of all people to talk to when he first arrived as a replacement at the trench the 8th called their home in the early winter days of 1916, and it still baffles him. Tom had been such a bright spot of color in the grey landscape – loud, full of laughter, beautifully untouched by the horrors of war – whereas Will had tried his best to blend in with the background and disappear into the mud and frost.

The Somme had left its mark on him, and while most of his scars weren’t littered across his skin Will knew people just needed to take a look at him to see that he wasn’t alright. Back then, his heart and mind had been pushed so often to their limits that Will just couldn’t take one more friendly face blown to bits right in front of his eyes. So when Tom walked up to him with his boyish grin and endless optimism, Will had been anything but welcoming and kind to him. Better not to get attached at all, that was his credo after the Somme. Spare yourself the pain. Don’t make friends.

But Tom was persistent. He came back, again and again, and every hurtful word Will snapped at him only seemed to make him more determined to become Will’s friend. He never left, never gave up, and with every day that passes Will is a little more grateful for that. Without Tom’s gentle presence and funny stories, he’s sure there would have been nothing left of him to return to England should he somehow have managed to survive the war as a soul-torn man.

What he said to Lieutenant Blake two years ago was now truer than ever: Tom had saved his life, in more ways than one, and one day Will hopes he will be able to tear down the protective walls he built around his heart and tell Tom about every little moment, every kind word and smile that changed Will’s life a little bit for the better.

He follows Tom back down the stairs and into the kitchen where Charlotte has kept herself busy and set the table while they were gone.

“There you are,” she smiles warmly and gestures for them to sit.

There are only three plates on the table and, after seeing Will’s confusion, Tom explains, “Joe’s at the market a few towns over, getting us a new cow. He’ll be back by tomorrow.”

“A new cow?” Will asks, surprised.

Charlotte nods. “Now that both my boys are home I can expand the farm again,” she says, filling their bowls with soup that smells absolutely delicious. “It’s a lot of work, the orchard, the animals, the fields. Too much for just one person.”

“I wasn’t really much help right after I came back,” Tom adds. One of his hands presses against his stomach, unconsciously perhaps, and Will has to look away. “It took months of rest until the doctors allowed me to even _try_ lifting things again.” He pauses, and a frown mars his face. “It’s still not quite right, even now.”

Will thinks of his left hand, of the way his fingers sometimes become so numb they lose their grip on whatever he’s holding, of the way his palm always seems to throb with his heartbeat nowadays and sometimes aches so much he can’t even clench his hand into a fist, let alone hold something as simple as his notebook. The frustration he sees on Tom’s face feels familiar, and he hides his scarred hand beneath the table.

Charlotte sits down across from him. “Better not quite right than not right at all,” she says in a voice that breaks no argument.

Tom rolls his eyes, clearly having heard her say that before. “All I’m saying is I don’t make a good farmer anymore, and probably never will again.”

“And you don’t have to,” Charlotte tells him a little more gently. “There’s more to life than this farm. Wouldn’t you agree, Will?”

Will blinks, not having expected to be drawn into this. “Uh,” he says eloquently. “I guess so?”

It’s then that Will realizes that he doesn’t know if Tom ever expected to take over the farm one day after the war. For all of Tom’s talking about his mother’s orchard in his letters he never mentioned his plans for the future. Until today, Will had chalked it up to his recovery but now he wonders if the reason Tom never said a word on the matter is because the war had cut that dream short before it could even begin.

The thought of Tom’s future being crushed like that, of Tom being uncertain and directionless because he tried to be kind to someone who didn’t deserve it makes Will’s stomach turn. He has no idea what jobs a small town like this could possibly offer a disabled war veteran like Tom whose injury prevents him from doing hard labor, especially now that all the boys are back, but he needs to say _something._

“I’m sure there is lots of interesting work one can do around here,” he says awkwardly.

Tom laughs. “Interesting? This is not London, Will.”

Will blushes. “I know but –“

Tom interrupts him, turning to his mother. “And anyway, I’ve already spoken to Old Man Jones earlier while you were at Eleanor’s. He’s willing to take me on as an apprentice, should I show promise. I’ll start next week.”

Charlotte’s eyes grow wide with both happiness and surprise. She puts down her spoon and draws Tom into a quick hug. “Oh, this is wonderful! I’m so glad you finally talked to him.”

“Yeah, well,” Tom says, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment. “Let’s wait and see, shall we? It might not work out in the end.”

Will has no idea what or who they’re talking about. “Who is Old Man Jones?”

“The baker,” Charlotte explains. “Lives on the other side of town and makes the best bread far and wide, everyone agrees. Lost his only son recently to the flu, so he’s got no one to help him out anymore. I’ve been urging Tom to talk to him for weeks.”

This is the first time Will’s hearing about any of this, and he wonders why Tom never mentioned anything about his apparent plans to become a baker in one of his frequent letters. “You never told me you like baking.”

Tom shrugs and helps himself to a second bowl of soup. “That’s because I don’t know if I do. I mean, I like food – you know that,” he grins, and Will almost snorts because Tom liking food is the understatement of the year. He’s never seen anyone as constantly hungry and on the search for something to eat as Tom at the front. “But liking food and making food are two different things, right? I don’t know if I have the talent or patience to do what Old Man Jones does.”

“You’ll never know until you try it,” Charlotte says.

Will silently agrees with her, but Tom only shrugs again. “Yeah, we’ll see how it goes. As long as I don’t end up poisoning anyone accidentally, I’m going to count it as a win.”

Charlotte rolls her eyes before turning her attention onto Will. “What did you do before, Will? Tom’s never said.”

“I was working as a footman,” Will says, glad she’s only asking about the past and not what he’s doing now. He’s not ready to admit how much he’s been drifting since he came back, how lost he feels in this world that moves on as if nothing happened while his feet still seem to be stuck in the mud in France. “It was to save up money so I could go to university. I never went, though.”

“Oh,” Charlotte says. Her face falls as she realizes why he couldn’t. “Are you planning to go now?” she asks.

Will shakes his head, aware that Charlotte is not the only one watching him intently. “I don’t think that’s for me anymore.”

“Aiming to become a butler, then?” Charlotte asks.

Will chuckles darkly. Beneath the table, he tightly grips the wrist of his left hand in an effort to stop the tremors. It doesn’t work. “No,” he says. “I never wanted to make a career out of it.”

_Not that I could now even if I did_ , he thinks bitterly. 

Silence settles heavily around the table but Will can’t bring himself to say more on the subject, not when his hand is aching with the phantom pain of barbed wire and infection. The doctors at the aid post thought it a miracle that he hadn’t lost his hand after everything he put it through on that fateful day. What they didn’t realize was that they might as well have amputated it for all the good it does him now. His left hand is practically useless, and he’s just as unable to do most jobs as Tom is because he can’t grip, can’t hold, can’t carry things.

It’s something he’s avoided thinking about so far – his disability. His sister never pressured him to find work even though Will knows it wasn’t easy for her to feed another mouth with just her salary. He tried to help out as much as he could at home, took care of his nieces and cooked dinner when Elisabeth came home late, but he knows it wasn’t enough.

His sister doesn’t see it this way, of course. Will is sure she would have let him live with her for the rest of her life even if he’d stayed the shadow of the boy he used to be and never got better. But he doesn’t want to be a burden to her forever. He wants to be able to hold his own, to carve out a place for himself in this world – he just has no idea how he is supposed to do that with only one good hand and another wounded in a way that leads most people to think he inflicted the injury himself to get a ticket home.

Before his thoughts can spiral anymore Tom slurps his soup so loudly it earns him a glare from his mother and a stern, “Manners, Thomas.” It also serves to break the awkward silence that has settled over the table. Will finds himself finally glancing up from his plate, and when he sees Tom grinning at his mother and childishly sticking his tongue out at her Will feels his shoulders relax a fraction.

“Did he behave like that in France as well?” Charlotte asks, turning away from her son to look at Will.

Even though her question is about the war it also isn’t, not really, and Will finds himself thinking back to all the times Tom made him laugh by simply trying to speak with his mouth full of whatever tasteless stuff they were being fed that day. The memories give him enough strength to finally release his left wrist from his bruising grip and pick up his spoon again.

“Worse,” he says simply, and it’s enough to launch Tom into indignant protests that Will knows are more for show than anything else.

He lets Tom’s voice wash over him like he did so many times before but this time he pays attention to every word he says. Each and every one of them is precious. The soup tastes heavenly and fills his stomach with warmth, though not as much as Tom’s laughter does when Charlotte flicks a towel at him after one particularly outrageous thing he said.

Will could get used to this, he thinks. He could get used to watching Tom and his mother banter, and bask in the presence of their joy which seems almost completely untouched by the war. Sitting here with them feels right in a way that living at his sister’s place didn’t, but Will knows it won’t last. He has to remind himself he’s just a guest here, staying only as long as Charlotte and Tom will let him. There will come a day he will have to say goodbye to all of this again because good things, in his experience, rarely last.

There will come a day he will have to say goodbye to _Tom_ , and Will has no idea how he’s supposed to do that, how he can possibly live without Tom’s laughter filling up the empty spaces between his ribs with warmth.

He doesn’t want to lose him again. The thought is almost too much to bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank everyone for leaving kudos and comments! I really appreciate it! Also many thanks to the 2nd Devons for welcoming me so warmly into their community! <3
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed chapter 2 as much as the first chapter! Originally, this story was just supposed to be a short 5 + 1 fic. 12k words at max or so. Ha! I'm currently working on chapter 3 and am already over 13k for all three chapters together, so oviously "short" is not going to happen. 
> 
> The idea of people seeing Will's wound and thinking it's self-inflicted actually came from Downton Abbey and Thomas Barrow's storyline. The idea of Tom cheering Will up by eating whatever food they get as messily as possible is taken from Generation Kill (I just love Ray, okay?). Also, I watched They Shall Not Grow Old yesterday and there it was mentioned that soldiers coming back had a hard time finding work, so I figured Will, especially, wouldn't have it easy with his injured hand.
> 
> That's all for this chapter. I hope to see you back for chapter three, which will be titled "Milk". I'm sure you all know what that's alluding to ;)


	3. Milk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will and Tom have a heart to heart in a field, there is only one bed (*gasp*) and Will spills some milk.

**3\. Milk**

After dinner Will helps Tom wash and dry the dishes despite Charlotte’s protests that he is a guest.

“It’s no trouble,” he insists – and it isn’t as long as he remembers to hold the plates with his right hand and dry them with his left. He has to be careful when handling breakable things now, and even though it’s becoming easier over time not to trust his instincts and instead stop and think before he does something, he’s still slipping up sometimes. The chip in his sister’s favorite cup is testament to that.

If Tom notices him favoring his right hand, he doesn’t say anything.

After the dishes have been put away, he gently bumps his shoulder against Will’s. “I need to take Myrtle for a walk. Want to come with me?”

As if that’s even a question. Will would follow Tom to the end of the world if he asked. 

They go back to the storage room and don their jackets, bundling up against the chill outside now that the sun has set. Will smiles when he sees Myrtle impatiently wagging her tail in excitement while they tie up their shoes.

“Sit, Myrtle,” Tom tells her. She whines but reluctantly follows his command. “And stay.”

She does – right until the moment he opens the door. She jumps up, and before Tom can grab her she dashes out into the dark and is gone.

Will bites his lip to keep from grinning. He glances up at Tom from where he’s finishing tying up his shoes. “Didn’t you once tell me that she’s the most well-trained dog I’ll ever see?”

Tom huffs. “She is,” he mutters. “Well, she can be. Sometimes. If she wants to.”

There’s a little crease between his eyebrows that’s barely visible in the dim light from the lamp he’s picked up and holding out in front of him, and the way he’s pouting is so endearing Will feels warmth spreading through him as they step outside to follow Myrtle into the dark. God, he missed moments like this so much where Tom is just a little more ridiculous and breathtaking than usual. 

With a smile on his face, Will follows him to the little gate in the stone wall they came through earlier. Myrtle is sitting there and waiting for them just like she was when Will arrived this afternoon. She’s panting happily as if she couldn’t possibly do any wrong, and Tom shakes his head at her. His voice is soft, though, when he says, “Come on, you menace. Let’s go.”

Will expects her to jump up and run into the darkness like before but to his surprise Myrtle stays close to them, never straying too far beyond the shine of Tom’s lamp. She keeps looking back at Tom as if making sure he’s still there. It’s like she’s a completely different dog now that she’s left the orchard.

“See?” Tom says with a cheeky grin, affectionately ruffling Myrtle’s fur when she returns to his side. “She can be a good girl.”

Will clutches at his heart theatrically. “How could I ever doubt your tales?”

“Shove off!” Tom laughs.

They walk through the fields, straying farther and farther from the house until its lights are just tiny stars in the distance. They’re following no path Will can see, but Tom’s steps are sure and steady and Will is more than glad to be able to walk beside him like this again. It feels familiar, a bit like before – but only in the best of ways because out here, beneath the universe and its millions of distant suns, there’s no gunfire, no flares lighting up the night sky, and no barbed wire blocking their way. It’s peaceful and safe, and for a moment Will closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to let the feeling sink in.

He’s glad not all good things have been tainted by the war, after all.

Then Tom breaks the quiet. “The dark still doesn’t bother you, huh?” he says quietly.

Will almost misses a step as memories of blood and despair flash through his mind. He blinks them away and looks at Tom, taking in the tension in his shoulders and the way his hand, the one not currently holding the lamp, is curled into a trembling fist at his side. Something is clearly wrong, and Will’s mind frantically searches for clues about what happened to cause this change because a minute ago Tom seemed _fine_ , and now he won’t look at Will and Will has no idea what to do with a Tom that shuts him out like this. It’s usually the other way round and Will – Will is not good with words. Not like Tom is. He can’t tell stories that make people smile and forget about their pain for a moment. He can’t draw someone out of their shells by telling a joke that’s so bad people can’t help but laugh.

Every word, every sentence he comes up with feels empty, hollow and meaningless in the face of Tom’s downturned eyes and hunched shoulders. Will wants to see him smile again, wants to watch his eyes light up with laughter but he has no idea how to accomplish that. In the end, he helplessly asks, “What’s wrong?”

Tom snorts. “What isn’t?” he mutters. He unclenches his hand to rake shaking fingers through his hair. “I never had a problem with the dark before I came to France. Never. Not even as a child. But when I came back –“ His breath hitches and Will wants so badly to just reach out and take away his pain. “When I came back, I couldn’t make myself go outside after nightfall. I kept freaking out just thinking about it.” He finally turns to Will, his cheeks red with shame. “It was the light, Will,” he says, voice trembling. “I was terrified of lighting the fucking lamp.”

Will’s heart aches for him because he knows this feeling. He _knows_ it.

“Tom …” he says softly but before he can say more Tom shakes his head and turns away from him again. He fastens his pace and walks ahead. Will has to hurry to keep up.

“It’s pathetic,” Tom says. His voice is harsh and loud in the quiet of the night, and he keeps looking straight ahead at nothing in the inky blackness. “Utterly pathetic.”

Then he stops and turns around so suddenly Will almost runs into him.

“It’s just a lamp, isn’t it?” As if to prove his point he raises the lamp a little higher and gives it a shake. Its light dances wildly over the fields around them, creating bizarre shadows. “Just a stupid lamp. God, I couldn’t even explain to Mum what was wrong, why I couldn’t take Myrtle for her walks like I used to.”

Myrtle, upon hearing her name, presses closer to his legs as if to say, “Hey, it’s okay”

Tom briefly allows his hand to trail along her back before he brings it up to his face. He hangs his head but Will can see him wiping at his eyes, and something in him shatters.

He doesn’t think about it when he steps closer to Tom and gently takes the lamp from him to set it down on the ground between them. He doesn’t think when he reaches for Tom’s hands, cold and trembling beneath his fingers, and presses warmth into them with his fingertips, hoping it will help.

Patiently, he waits until Tom looks up at him.

“It’s not pathetic, or stupid or whatever else you’ve told yourself,” he tells him firmly. “It’s just what you’ve been taught, and something like that is hard to unlearn. It takes time.”

“It took _months_ ,” Tom says hashly. “Almost a year, Will. A _year_ until I could walk my fucking dog again without being scared out of my mind someone’s going to shoot at me.”

“I wish you’d told me,” Will says, and Tom looks up at him in surprise before shaking his head.

“I couldn’t,” he says. “You were in France, fighting something real. I was just fighting shadows. Memories.”

Will squeezes his hands. “There’s plenty of those in France as well.” He hears Tom take in a sharp breath and sees realization dawn in his eyes. Will manages a shaky smile. “You saw how bad I was after the … after the Somme. We all struggle – with different things, maybe, but we all do. Every single one of us. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar.”

Tom bites his lip. “It’s just,” he murmurs. “No one here _gets_ it. I was the only one back, and no one _understood_.”

“But you’re not the only one anymore. Your brother –“

“No,” Tom says resolutely, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. I can’t talk to him about this. I – I can’t.”

Will nods, understanding. He’s never talked about this to anyone, either. Especially not his sister even though he knows she caught him flinching at a slammed door at least once over the past few months that he stayed with her. He told himself he kept quiet about it because he didn’t want to bring the war back with him anymore than he already had, but now, standing in a field far away from her, he realizes it’s just like Tom said: his sister wouldn’t have understood. Will could have used a thousand words to describe the war and yet she never could have even hoped to grasp what he went through.

But Tom does. For a short time, barely half a year, their memories are the same, and because of that it suddenly feels almost easy for Will to admit his own struggles where he always faltered before.

“Loud noises,” he admits quietly, giving Tom a self-deprecating smile. “That’s what I can’t shake. Sudden loud noises.”

“Like shells?” Tom whispers.

Will nods. “Yes. Like shells. And gunshots.”

He doesn’t mention the mess he was on New Year’s Eve when the celebrations started but Tom looks at him like he knows, like he can imagine and wishes he’d been there to keep the shadows at bay. Just like Will wishes he hadn’t been stuck in France while Tom tried to find the courage to light a lamp in the dark.

“Well,” Tom clears his throat. “I better not slam any doors then, huh?”

Will lets out a low chuckle. Warmth fills him. “I’d appreciate that.” He pauses and holds Tom’s gaze for a moment. “You’re really alright being out here?”

Tom’s face softens. “Yeah. Like I said, it took a while but I got there in the end.” He gives Will a shy look. “It’s easier with you here, though.”

The warm feeling spreads from Will’s core to the very tips of his fingers.

He gives Tom’s hand a squeeze and, with a new understanding of the situation, picks up the lamp again. Together, they slowly make their way back to the house side by side with Myrtle staying close to them until they reach the entrance to the orchard. Before they enter the house, Will stops Tom with a gentle touch on his arm.

“I just … I wanted to thank you. For telling me. For trusting me with this.”

Tom smiles. He looks tired but at ease in the warm glow of the lamp. “I trust you with my life, Will,” he says. “All of it.”

Will doesn’t think he deserves this kind of faith in him, not after he allowed Tom to get hurt so badly it ended up ruining his life, but he refrains from saying that. Instead he simply nods and walks through the door Tom is holding open for him. Hanging up their jackets and leaving behind their shoes, they go looking for Charlotte.

They find her in the living room.

“Oh, you’re back already,” say says with a smile as she puts down her needle work and looks up at them. “How was the walk?”

“Fine,” Tom says. “Myrtle didn’t run away once.”

Charlotte leans down to pet the panting dog. “Good girl.” She scratches her behind the ears, just like Will did earlier that day, and a moment later Myrtle lies down, seemingly settling in for a long session of pets and ear scratches.

Charlotte laughs. “Oh no, I won’t do this all evening, Myrtle. We still need to find Will a place to sleep.”

 _Right_ , Will thinks. He almost forgot about that.

Charlotte gives Myrtle one more gentle scratch before she stands up, much to Myrtle’s disappointment.

“Now,” she says to Will, wiping her hands on her dress. “We don’t really have a guest room, I’m afraid. I could put you up in Joe’s room for the night if you want, but since he’s coming back tomorrow that would only be a short-term solution. I could offer you the couch …” She trails off. Taking in Will’s size, she looks back over to the couch and shakes her head. “No, that won’t do. Don’t reckon you’d get a proper night’s sleep with your feet hanging over the end of it.”

Will is about to say that he doesn’t mind, that he sleeps tightly curled up anyways – a habit he picked up after he lost Tom – when Tom says, “We can share my room, Mum. It’s no problem.”

Charlotte considers that. “We don’t have a second bed.”

Tom shrugs. “We’ll share mine, or I’ll sleep on the floor. Really, it’s no bother. We’ve had worse.”

While that’s true, Will has absolutely no intention of kicking Tom out of his own bed. It’s not Tom’s fault Will arrived here without any warning, and Will certainly won’t make him sleep on the floor after inviting himself into their homes. But that’s something they can discuss later.

“I wouldn’t mind sharing,” he says when Charlotte gives him a questioning look.

“Well, alright, if you’re sure,” she says. “Let me get you some pillows and blankets.”

They follow her upstairs where she hands him the promised bedding. It’s more than enough, more than Will probably needs. Will still takes it all gratefully. “Thank you.”

Tom, however, is giving his mother a look. “You sure you don’t want to give him a _fourth_ blanket, Mum?”

“Shush, you,” Charlotte admonishes. “If one of you is sleeping on the floor,” and her tone makes it perfectly clear that better be Tom, “I don’t want it to be more uncomfortable than necessary.”

“I really appreciate it,” Will interjects before Tom can make another comment.

Charlotte smiles at him. “I know you do. Now, is there anything else you need? If not, I think I’ll be turning in for the night.” For Will’s benefit she adds, “It’s already late, and I have to get up early to milk the cows.”

“Nah, we’re good, Mum,” Tom says and Will nods.

“Yes, we’ll manage. Thank you again for letting me stay.”

Charlotte’s face softens and she pulls Will, blankets and pillows and all, into a brief but not less loving hug. “Of course, dear. Have a good night.”

“Sorry for that,” Tom says quietly the moment his mother’s bedroom door closes behind her. He scoops half of the pillows and blankets out of Will’s arms. “She can be a little overenthusiastic.”

“It’s fine,” Will assures him. Then, after a second, he adds, “It’s nice, actually.”

Tom glances down at the pile of bedding in his arms. “Yeah, I suppose. Would have been even nicer to have all of this in France,” he mumbles.

Will agrees.

Tom’s room is not big – there’s a bed in it, a nightstand, a small desk with a chair and a wardrobe – but potted flowers line the windows and paintings the walls, giving it such a warm and comfy atmosphere that Will immediately feels at home. There’s so much of Tom in this room he has only ever caught glimpses of before, like the stacks of dog-eared books on the nightstand he clearly has read more than once, or the half-finished pencil drawing of Myrtle on the desk. He finds it hard not to stare and drink it all in while Tom is busy dumping the blankets and pillows in his arms on his bed and then proceeding to do the same with the ones Will is holding.

Before Will can protest, Tom starts pulling his own bedding down onto the dark green carpet.

“Mum will kill me if I make you sleep on the floor,” he explains when he sees Will’s wide eyes. It’s then that Will realizes he’s up against two very determined Blakes here, and that there’s no possible outcome in this situation where he doesn’t take the bed.

He watches Tom rearrange his pillows on the floor for a moment, and comes to a decision. Reaching out, Will gently touches his wrist, effectively stopping Tom’s motions. “I don’t want to kick you out of your bed.”

“And I don’t want to face my mother’s wrath in the morning,” Tom replies.

Will nods. “Earlier, you said we could share,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

Tom furrows his eyebrows. “You sure? The bed’s not exactly built for two. It would be a tight fit.”

Will glances at it and shrugs. “Like you said: we’ve had worse.”

“We have, haven’t we?”

Will knows they’re both remembering sandbags digging uncomfortably into their backs, water freezing their boots to their feet at night, and the little dug-outs they sometimes had to squeeze themselves into to try to get some sleep at the front. Sharing a comfortable bed, though small, is nothing compared to that, so he simply nods and with that the matter is settled. They work together to rearrange the various pillows they have at their disposal on Tom’s bed, and deposit two of the blankets on the foot of it. The rest they leave in a pile on the floor.

They take turns using the bathroom, and when Will comes back to Tom’s room Tom has already changed into a soft-looking shirt and pair of trousers that make him look even younger than he is. Will quickly changes as well, and when he’s done he finds Tom gesturing towards the bed with a grin.

“Age before beauty,” he says cheekily.

Will snorts. Deciding not to dignify that with a response, he climbs into the bed and presses himself closely to the wall to give Tom as much room as possible. He watches silently as Tom goes to turn off the lamp. The room falls dark. Tom’s quiet steps are the only sound in the room until suddenly there’s a thud followed by a muffled curse.

“You okay?” Will asks.

“Fucking suitcase,” Tom grumbles.

Will lets out a low chuckle. “Do I need to call a doctor?” he gently teases as Tom crawls into bed next to him.

“Oi, stop making fun of me! I probably broke my toe on that thing.”

Will snorts. “Sure you did.”

He feels Tom settling down next to him. and a moment later Tom’s hand brushes his shoulder as he pulls the blankets over them both. Will can’t see him in the darkness but he feels his body heat in the space between them.

“Alright?” Tom asks him quietly.

“Yes,” Will says with a smile, knowing Tom can hear it in his voice. And then, because he does feel a little guilty about Tom stubbing his toe, he asks, “You?”

He feels Tom nod. “I’m good. At least up here your evil suitcase won’t get me.”

Will huffs out another laugh. “Wouldn’t want you to get eaten by it during the night, would we?”

“Definitely not,” Tom agrees.

Will feels a peaceful calm settle over him, the kind he’s been longing for ever since he came back. Falling asleep has been difficult these last few months – hell, it’s been difficult the last few _years_ – but with Tom quietly breathing next to him Will thinks tonight he’ll manage. He allows his eyes to close, and instead of his mind running in circles all his thoughts just _stop_ until the only things that matter are the sound of Tom’s soft breaths and the warmth of his body.

The feeling of loneliness, his shadow for so long Will almost can’t remember what it’s like to live without it, vanishes completely the moment Tom whispers, “I’ve missed you, Will.”

There’s a lump in Will’s throat, and even though he knows it’s futile, he opens his eyes to search for Tom’s face in the darkness. “Me, too,” he admits quietly. “Every day.”

He hears Tom take in a shuddering breath, and a moment later warm fingers graze over his knuckles. Will holds onto them.

“Goodnight, Will,” Tom murmurs.

Will feels him interlace their fingers. “Goodnight.”

The weight of Tom’s hand over his, combined with the steady thrum of his pulse, is so reassuring that Will doesn’t even notice when his eyes fall close. Sleep pulls him into her waiting arms, and for the first time in forever it is restful. There are no dreams, no memories – just the comforting knowledge that he is safe, that _Tom_ is safe, and that he’s not alone anymore. It fills his sleep with colors – the golden light of the morning sun, the bright green of springtime, the untarnished white of cherry blossoms.

The sun is already shining through the window when Will wakes up the next morning. He blinks at it in confusion, used to waking up before dawn, restless and shaking with the afterimages of blood and embers in the dark. There’s nothing of that now – only this warm, sleepy feeling he almost forgot existed.

It spreads through every fiber of his being when he realizes that Tom’s fingertips are still gently resting within the palm of his hand.

Will smiles, and when he hears Tom groan a moment later while bringing up one of his arms to shield his eyes from the light, he allows his thumb to trace a comforting pattern against Tom’s skin.

“Good morning,” he says softly.

Tom opens one eye to squint at him. “Turn off the sun and we’ll see about that.”

Will laughs. The idea is so ridiculous and so _Tom_ he feels a rush of fondness surge through him. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“Have you ever tried?” Tom challenges, his words muffled by his arm.

“You’re impossible,” Will tells him with a shake of his head but he finds himself reaching for the blankets and, with one swift movement, pulls them up and over their heads, effectively blocking out the sun.

Tom slowly lowers his arm.

“You’re a genius,” he says in awe, finally opening his eyes.

Will chuckles. “Thanks.”

Silence settles over them, and Tom is blinking at him with soft eyes full of wonder as if he can’t quite believe that Will is really here with him.

“Hi,” he finally whispers.

Will wonders how such a small word can make his heart feel so full. “Good morning,” he whispers back.

Tom smiles. “This is kind of nice.”

Will tilts his head a little. “What do you mean?”

“This,” Tom says and gestures between them as if that explains anything. “Not waking up alone. Having someone to talk to in the morning.” He pauses. “Sleeping through the night.”

Will’s chest tightens when he hears that. He knows his own nightmares inside out by now, knows which ones will make him wake up barely able to hold back a scream and which ones will cause him to cry in the dark until his racing heart calms down and he convinces himself that the images burned into his mind aren’t real. Knowing that Tom suffers from them too is not really a surprise but having it confirmed still makes his chest tighten painfully, as if someone is squeezing his heart and refusing to let go.

“I know what you mean,” Will confesses quietly. “I have nightmares, too.”

“Yeah?” Tom murmurs quietly. His eyes are filled with compassion and sympathy born from shared experiences.

Will nods. “Yeah. Not tonight, though.”

“Good,” Tom smiles.

They take their time getting ready. While Tom is in the bathroom, Will dresses in a simple pair of trousers and a button-down shirt before he rubs the salve the doctor gave him into the scars on his left hand just like he’s been told. It’s supposed to make the tissue more flexible but it hurts, even after all this time. There’s a bone-deep ache spreading through his hand that always leaves his palm throbbing along with his heartbeat after he’s finished, and the worst thing is that the salve, for all the doctor’s promises, hasn’t helped at all, so far.

Will doesn’t think it ever will. 

He sighs and puts the salve away just as Tom comes back into the room, dressed and ready to start the day. Together, they go downstairs where they find Charlotte waiting for them in the kitchen.

“Good morning, you two! I was starting to think you’d sleep the whole day away.”

Will ducks his head as he sits down at the set table. “I’m sorry we’re late.”

To his surprise, Charlotte laughs. “Oh no, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m glad you got some sleep.”

Will looks up at that, remembering Tom’s words from earlier. _This is kind of nice. Sleeping through the night._ He wonders how often Tom’s nightmares woke Charlotte up in the past, how often she stood in front of his door debating whether to go in or not, knowing she wouldn’t be able to help him no matter what she did.

He wonders how often his sister had done the same.

“Would you like some milk, Will?” Charlotte asks, pulling him from his thoughts. She’s holding up a jug, clearly heavy. “It’s fresh from the stables.”

She’s looking at him with such expectancy that Will finds himself nodding without thinking about it. He watches as she first fills his cup and then Tom’s, but the moment he sees the white liquid he feels his stomach turning. The last time he drank milk was –

No. He will not think about it. Not here, not today. Not when the morning started out so peacefully.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to calm his nerves. It’s a mistake, though, because now he can _smell_ the milk, and the memory of that day, of what happened shortly after the few blissful seconds of tasting something different than stale water for the first time in months, hits him with full force.

His eyes snap up to Tom, the urge to make sure that he’s alright, that he won’t get hurt, too strong to resist. But Tom is laughing at something his mother said, his eyes crinkling around the corners with so much life and joy instead of the pain and dullness Will remembers from that day. The difference is so jarring that he doesn’t realize he’s staring until Tom’s eyes meet his and he cocks his head to the side.

“Something wrong?” Out of reflex, Will shakes his head. Tom gives him a cautious smile and nods towards Will’s plate. “You haven’t touched your breakfast yet.”

Will looks down and finds that Tom is right. There’s neither jam nor butter on his bread. With shaking hands, he reaches for both. “Sorry, must have been lost in thoughts,” he mumbles.

He’s quiet for the rest of breakfast. Even though he doesn’t feel hungry anymore he eats the bread, all the while trying to ignore the cup of milk standing right in front of him. Tom eats four slices in the time it takes Will to eat his single one but he’s so excitedly talking about Joe and the new cow he’s going to bring back today that he doesn’t notice how little Will is eating, and Will is grateful for that.

But when they stand up, ready to go outside and check the chickens for eggs, Charlotte says, “Will, dear, you’ve forgotten to drink your milk.”

Will stops and goes pale. He turns around and is met with her kind smile, so similar to Tom’s. She’s holding out his cup to him and he takes it from her hands with trembling fingers.

“Thanks,” he whispers. He knows he could say no, could probably claim he doesn’t like milk anymore, but he’s a guest here and they’ve been so kind to him and he really doesn’t want to cause a fuss, so he brings the cup up to his lips.

He tells himself that he can do this, that it’s just a bit of milk and nothing to worry about, but the moment he takes a sip he can’t keep the memory of that day at the farm at bay any longer. His vision fills with images of knives and blood, his fingers itching for a trigger that isn’t there, slick with red.

_Am I dying?_

_Yes. Yes, I think you are._

The cup shatters against the floor, and Will flinches violently. He stares at the broken shards with wide eyes as the milk slowly makes its way across the tiles before he looks up in horror.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, feeling bile rise in his throat. “I’m so sorry.”

Charlotte’s face softens. “It’s just a broken cup, Will. Not the first this kitchen has seen, and probably not the last.”

Will lets out a shuddering breath, trying to get a hold on his emotions. “I’ll clean it up. Just – just give me a moment.”

He starts looking around for a broom but Charlotte’s hand on his elbow stops him.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and change?” she suggests gently. Will follows her gaze to his soaking socks and milk-spattered trousers. “I’ll deal with this while Tom can get started on gathering the eggs.”

Tom nods. “I’ll be just round the back of the house,” he tells Will with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Can’t miss it.”

Will swallows hard. “Okay,” he whispers.

Upstairs in Tom’s room, slowly warming up with the morning sun, Will sinks down onto the bed and tries his hardest to keep his breathing under control and the tears at bay. He keeps wringing his hands in his lap, attempting to reassure himself that there’s no blood on them. Nothing he usually does to calm himself down is working, though – not until he hears Tom’s voice through the window, calling for Myrtle. Then Tom’s laughter echoes up from the orchard, filling the room with so much life that Will feels some of the tension and panic gripping him ease a little.

He pulls his legs up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. Resting his cheek against his knees, he closes his eyes and listens. Tom’s laughter grows fainter but it’s enough to pull his mind away from the horrors that lurk in his memories and towards cherry trees in bloom.

There is no knife, no blood.

Tom is alive and safe.

They’re both home.

Will finally breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all having a good Sunday and have enjoyed this new chapter! Half the story is finally done, woohoo! I'm currently working on chapter 4 but since I'm also working on a Kingsman AU based on the Whumptober prompts, I can't promise the next chapter will be up in two weeks time. I'll try my best, though. 
> 
> In chapter 4, we'll finally meet Joe (and the new cow) :)
> 
> Have a lovely Sunday!


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